Chapter 3 - The Secret in the PaintEthan didn't retreat. He stood his ground, letting the cold wind bite through his jacket.
“No, Grace,” Ethan said quietly, his voice devoid of any corporate arrogance. “I didn't come here to hand you a check. And I didn't come here to pity you. I came here because I used to be Emily.”
Grace blinked, caught off guard by his admission. Her defenses wavered.
“What are you talking about?” she asked, her voice dropping.
“My father died when I was seven,” Ethan explained, looking down at the worn wooden boards of the porch. “My mother worked three jobs just to keep the lights on. I remember what it felt like to walk into a classroom hoping no one looked down at my feet. I remember the shame of pretending my shoes weren't falling apart.”
Grace stared at him, the hostility slowly draining from her face, leaving behind only raw, hollow fatigue. She looked down at her paint-stained hands.
“I had a gallery show lined up in downtown Boston,” Grace whispered, stepping back and pushing the door wide open. “Three months ago. My entire collection—paintings I spent two years creating while Emily slept—was supposed to pay off our back rent and buy her winter clothes.”
Ethan stepped across the threshold, walking into the modest, warm living room.
The room was sparse, but it was filled with color. Canvases leaned against every wall, depicting breathtaking landscapes of Boston at twilight, wild forests, and vibrant portraits of children laughing. But in the corner, stacked neatly, were dozens of wrapped, unsold canvases.
“What happened to the gallery show?” Ethan asked softly.
“The gallery owner skipped town with the inventory two nights before the opening,” Grace said, her voice breaking as she covered her face with her hands. “No contracts. No payment. Just locked doors and an empty building. I’ve been working night shifts at a local diner ever since, but tips barely cover groceries. I couldn't afford shoes, Mr. Parker. I couldn't even afford proper groceries this week.”
Ethan looked around the room, his mind racing. He didn't see a failing mother. He saw an extraordinary artist whose work had been stolen by a criminal.
“Grace,” Ethan said firmly, stepping closer. “Where are the stolen paintings registered?”
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“They’re not,” she sobbed. “The owner operated in a gray market. I have nothing to prove they belong to me except my signature on the back corners.”
Ethan pulled out his phone. “That’s all the proof we need.”
